Bait and Snitch
by InitialLuv
Summary: After a seemingly successful arrest has fatal complications, Hardcastle and McCormick find themselves held responsible for the botched case.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note:_** This is my attempt at a "case" story. I'm not as adept at writing this type of story; the majority of my fics are emotion-driven. So please remember that as you read this, and forgive my errors.

The time period of this story is early '84, roughly between _**The**_ _**Georgia Street Motors**_ and _**The Homecoming**_ episodes.

**-ck**

_Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, _**_not_**_ for profit._

* * *

_**BAIT AND SNITCH**_

**by InitialLuv**

As the illegal transaction was finalized, drugs for money, Milton C. Hardcastle gave a nudge to his associate. "That's it, McCormick!" he whispered.

Mark McCormick threw off the grungy blanket he had been hidden under, and scrambled to his feet. Right next to him, also disguised as a homeless bum, Hardcastle tossed aside his own blanket and rose as well. "Hold it right there, Portman!" the judge ordered, leveling his handgun.

For a split second the drug dealer and his teenaged subordinate stood frozen, staring at the two men who had previously been only shapeless lumps in the back of the alley, covered in shabby clothing and blankets. Then Portman ran in one direction, and the teenager ran in the other.

"Go!" Hardcastle yelled, although his direction was unneeded. McCormick was already running after Portman. The judge holstered his handgun and took off in the opposite direction, pursuing the teenager.

The judge was put through his paces as he chased after the boy. The youth ran down another alley, cut across the cluttered parking lot of an abandoned factory, and then ducked through an opening in a fence surrounding a junkyard. Knowing he couldn't fit though the opening or scale the fence, Hardcastle called out desperately: "Jason!" Hardcastle heaved in another breath. "That's far enough! Jason, stop!"

The kid paused, still a good distance from Milt, and yelled back. "I'm not coming back until I know it's safe!"

Whereas Jason Graham had evaded his pursuer enough to make the foot chase interesting, Sol Portman lost his race before it had barely begun. When the drug dealer turned to escape, he'd gotten only ten yards when a sewer grate, not resting flush against the pavement, tripped him up. Portman had wildly pin-wheeled his arms in an attempt to regain his footing, but had eventually succumbed to his forward movement, plunging to the ground. McCormick was on top of him within moments. He simultaneously pulled the man onto his back and raised his right fist, preparing to deliver an incapacitating blow.

Before Mark could connect fist to face, Portman lifted his arm – previously hidden under his body – and swept it out violently at McCormick. At the same time that the gleam of the knife registered in McCormick's brain, he heard the quick rip of his jacket sleeve, and felt the sharp slice across his right forearm. Mark fell back, automatically cradling his arm to his chest with his left hand.

The drug dealer, still breathing hard, struggled to his feet. The knife in his hand was now red with McCormick's blood. Mark stayed on the ground, but then suddenly lunged forward and grabbed with both hands at Portman's ankles, pulling them forward. Again losing his balance, Portman fell backwards. His rear hit first, and then the back of his head connected with the hard pavement. The knife clattered to the ground, and Mark reached for it, then paused. After a second, closer look at Portman he realized the man was no longer a threat. He was out cold.

McCormick again clamped his bleeding arm tight against him. Then he rested back on the ground to wait for the cavalry.

**ooOoo**

Milt was still breathing heavily as he jogged back to the area where he and McCormick had been staking out Portman. When he drew near, he saw that the drug dealer hadn't made it very far. Portman was lying unmoving on the ground, McCormick sitting next to him. Mark was resting against the brick wall of one of the buildings bordering the alley, and had his arms wrapped around himself, apparently to ward off the cold. Recognizing there was no need to hurry, the judge slowed down to an amble.

Mark looked up with an impatient expression at the older man's arrival. "About time," he muttered. Then, slightly less grumpy: "Where's the kid?"

"Laying low." Hardcastle cocked his head toward Portman's still form. "What happened here?"

"He fell." When the judge sent a doubtful look at his friend, McCormick quirked a grin. "Okay, maybe I 'assisted' him a little." The grin was exchanged for a more serious expression. "He had a knife. I nudged it out of his reach. Don't worry, I didn't get my prints on it."

"A knife?"

"Yeah. You know, it would've been nice to know about that," Mark hinted.

"Well, maybe he didn't know. Knives are easy to keep hidden." Milt's defense of their informant included a brief shrug.

Mark snorted. "Well, then I have an idea. How about next time we run one of these routines, I'll chase the bait, and you can chase the guy with the knife. Since you have the gun and all."

"I let you carry the walkie-talkie. That's important, too."

McCormick snorted again, then tightened his arms around his chest.

"If you're so cold, I can get you one of those blankets we hid under."

"Yeah, the ones thinner than your hair? No thanks, I'm fine."

Milt's hand went unconsciously to his head. He pulled it down quickly, glaring at a grinning McCormick. "Just call Frank on the radio, wouldya?"

"Uh. . . I can't."

"Why not?" Hardcastle rolled his eyes heavenward. "You didn't break the damn thing, did you? See, I can't even trust you with that."

"No, I didn't break it!" Mark said testily, his grin gone. "At least, I don't think so. I just can't quite reach it, is all." He gave an awkward shrug, at the same time jerking his head toward his right jacket pocket.

Milt studied his friend for a few moments, finally understanding the crossed and clenched arms for what they were. He then looked around the immediate area. "Where's the knife?" he asked quietly.

McCormick jerked his chin in the general direction. Hardcastle walked a few steps, gazed down at the ground, and then sighed. "I thought you said you didn't touch it."

"I said I didn't get my prints on it. I didn't say anything about my blood."

Milt returned to McCormick's side, crouching down. On closer inspection, he could see the bloody right sleeve of Mark's jacket, although it was mostly hidden by the younger man's left hand.

"Stabbed?"

Mark gave a quick shake of his head. "Sliced."

"How bad?"

"I don't know. I haven't looked."

Milt sighed again. "Move your hand. Let me see."

Mark backed away slightly, as far as he could with the wall against his back. "No, I think I'll just stay like this. Thanks, though."

"McCormick!"

Mark opened his mouth to protest again, and suddenly found another reason to avoid assessing his injury. "Judge!" He nodded meaningfully at Portman, who was groaning and stirring restlessly. "You don't happen to have any cuffs on you?" the ex-con asked.

"Where would I keep them?" Milt extended his arms, showing the lack of adequate pockets in his "bum" attire: torn sweatpants and a ratty sweater, in decidedly mismatched colors. Even his hat, a somewhat faded New York Jets knit cap – complete with pom – was very unlike the retired jurist's normal headgear (which naturally made sense, as the hat had been loaned to him by McCormick). The only familiarity to Milton C. Hardcastle was the holster and accompanying .45.

"Fine," McCormick said, "but unless you're planning on marching the guy out of here at gunpoint, you'd better call Frank." He leaned to the side. "Grab the radio, huh?"

After a grumpy mutter or two, Milt pulled the walkie-talkie from Mark's jacket pocket. He switched it on, made sure it was set on the right band, and then pressed the "talk" button.

"Frank? Frank, you hear me?"

"_Yeah Milt, I'm here. Whatcha got?"_

"We got Portman, dead to rights. Just needs some cuffs and a Miranda."

"_Where are you at?"_

"Right where we were staked out waiting. The kid gift-wrapped him for us." Hardcastle frowned down at Mark. "And get some paramedics here – Portman had a knife, sliced McCormick on the arm."

The drug dealer gave another groan, followed by a loud curse. Milt glanced over at the man, then pressed down on the radio button again.

"I guess Portman should be looked at, too."

"_Why? What happened to him?"_

"He fell."

* * *

When Hardcastle and McCormick returned home it was late enough that twilight had come and gone, and although it was nowhere near as dark as it had been on Mark's first introduction to the estate, he had a strong sense of déjà vu. Sarah was again waiting on the stoop as the judge pulled the truck up beside the fountain, and she voiced a complaint similar to the one she'd had on that night several months ago. "You're late, Your Honor," she said as soon as Hardcastle had stepped out of the cab of the new pick-up. "You said you'd be home over twenty minutes ago. Supper's nearly ready."

The judge frowned. "I'm sorry, Sarah – we got hung up at the pharmacy." He gestured at the ex-con, who was exiting the pickup with a small white paper bag in hand.

Mark sent a displeased look right back at the older man. "_And_ we got stuck in traffic. That one wasn't my fault. Unless you think I had something to do with the four-car crash that caused the ten-mile back up."

"Wouldn't put it past you."

Sarah cleared her throat, and both men stopped bickering long enough to look mildly chastened. They followed the woman into the house. As they stepped inside the door, the housekeeper turned and made a brief wave to the den. "Lieutenant Harper just called, Your Honor. He'd like you to call him back." Milt nodded, making his way for the den. He had barely stepped down to his desk before Sarah directed, "Make it quick."

McCormick _hmmped_, but soon found himself also regarded coolly by the housekeeper. "And _you_ –"

"Me? What did I do?"

"You're going to help me in the kitchen."

"But—" Mark gestured at Hardcastle, who was now dialing the phone. He saw no help coming from the judge; instead Milt sent a wry grin at the younger man. "You'd better go help her," he advised. "I'll let you know what I find out – Yeah, hi, Frank, it's Milt."

"Let's go, young man." Sarah's sharp voice overrode the judge's side of the phone conversation.

McCormick turned with a silent sigh, and trailed down the hallway after the woman. Before they even reached the kitchen, he could smell the enticing aromas of the home-cooked dinner. Mark was hit with two simultaneous emotions. He felt incredibly blessed to have lucked into this "fast gun" situation, which included a surreptitiously attentive housekeeper (who was also a supremely talented cook). But he also felt a wave of despondency, as he was reminded of her imminent departure. In less than two weeks, Sarah would be leaving them, journeying several hours north to move in with her sister.

Mark glanced around as they entered the kitchen. "What did you need me to – "

"Sit down," Sarah interrupted.

McCormick shook his head, confused. "I thought you wanted me to help you."

"_Sit_."

Still unsure, Mark slowly pulled out a chair and sat down, depositing the pharmacy bag onto the table top. Sarah sat next to him, and she studied him quietly. Her gaze lowered to Mark's right arm. As he was no longer wearing his jacket (decrepit, blood-stained, and ripped, it had been tossed in the garbage at the ER), Sarah could easily see his gauze-wrapped forearm.

"How badly are you hurt?"

McCormick dropped his head, stifling a smile. _Surreptitiously attentive._

"I'm fine – only some stitches. No big deal."

She nodded at the paper bag. "You needed to go to the pharmacy?"

"Yeah, for some antibiotic cream. They gave me a tetanus shot at the ER, but I'm supposed to put the cream on the wound when I change the bandage." He lifted his right arm slightly, as if Sarah hadn't already noticed the injury.

The woman shook her head tightly. "I hope you kept the number of stitches under double digits."

"Uh – nine." When she narrowed her eyes at his hesitation, he repeated. "Nine. _Really_."

"Well, there's that, at least."

Mark sighed, smiling softly. "Sarah, it's not like I went out trying to get hurt. I didn't know the guy had a knife. If I had, I would've. . . "

"What?" she pressed. "Would you have let him get away?"

"No!" he said immediately. "No, I – I would've fought him differently. Changed my strategy, I don't know."

Sarah still seemed dissatisfied with his answer. "That's fine, but what about when the person you're chasing has a gun?"

Mark shrugged, winced, then rubbed at his left shoulder, where he'd gotten the tetanus shot. _Damn thing hurts more than the knife wound_, he thought disgustedly. "Hardcase – Judge Hardcastle has a gun. Someone shoots at us, he shoots back."

"And what do you do?"

"Duck."

Sarah had inhaled to answer when the timer on the oven buzzed. She turned her head, and Mark rose, taking that moment to escape. "I'll go tell the judge dinner's ready."

**ooOoo**

Dinner was a quiet affair. As soon as the food was dished out McCormick tried to grill Hardcastle on his phone call with Harper, but Sarah quickly stopped that, declaring there would be no "shop talk" at the dining room table. Both men grumbled to themselves but deferred to the woman's insistence, and the discussion instead centered on compliments to the cook and asking that condiments be passed.

Mark had been looking down, concentrating on getting his peas on his fork without dropping too many back onto his plate, when he realized someone was calling his name. The voice had a tone of impatience verging on concern, and Mark raised his head, blinking. Both Sarah and the judge were studying him closely. He suddenly had the feeling he had zoned out.

"Mark?" He turned his attention to Sarah. She looked at his face, then at his plate. "Are you all right? You're not eating."

Looking down again, McCormick saw his fork, partially full of peas, was still resting in his hand. The serving of chicken casserole on his plate was relatively untouched, and he'd taken maybe two bites of the baking powder biscuit. He knew Sarah had made the biscuits especially for him after Hardcastle had called from the ER to let her know what had happened. That made him feel even worse about what he had to say next.

"I'm not really hungry, Sarah. Everything's great, but I just don't have much of an appetite."

Hardcastle stared at the younger man. "No appetite?" he echoed. Then: "Are you okay?"

Mark pushed his plate away. "I feel a little out of it. I'm gonna go lie down." He stood up, pushing his chair back in. "Sorry."

Hardcastle and Sarah watched the ex-con leave the dining room, weaving slightly. Then the judge rose, tossing his napkin down. "I'll make sure he doesn't fall over getting to the gatehouse."

Milt was past the doors to his den and ready to head outside when he heard movement in the room on his left. Tracking back to the den, he stepped through the open doors and saw McCormick reclining on the couch, muttering to himself. As the judge approached, the low voice became more audible. "Both damn arms hurt, can't get comfortable. . . "

"Whaddaya doing?" Hardcastle demanded.

Mark lifted his head in surprise. "What do you want? I told you I was going to lie down. I'm tired."

"_Tired_? Falling asleep in your supper is more than just 'tired.' I think I should call that ER doc."

"Judge – " McCormick sighed in frustration. "I'm fine. It's just a side effect of the tetanus shot. Along with being nauseous." He grimaced. "Probably a good thing I didn't each much supper."

"Side effect?"

"Yeah!" Mark twisted his body, finally finding a mildly comfortable position with his right arm crossing over his body so that his right hand could massage his sore left shoulder. "Where were you when the doctor was talking about the side effects?" After a pause, McCormick answered his own question. "Oh, maybe that's when you were calling Sarah."

Milt nodded with a brief grunt. "What'd he say?"

"It's in the after-care papers. They're – I stuck them in the pharmacy bag. I think – yeah, it's in the kitchen." Mark yawned largely, and it was a moment before he continued. "He said the side effects might hit me harder 'cause of my injury." He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. "I'm just gonna take a nap, 'kay, Judge?"

When Hardcastle returned to the dining room, Sarah looked up from her plate, her face expectant. "Did he make it to the gatehouse all right?"

Milt waved his hand distractedly. "He didn't even get that far. He's sacked out on the couch." Hardcastle continued past the table and headed for the kitchen.

"Your Honor, your food is getting cold."

"I know, Sarah I just have to check something. And I was almost done – I can warm the rest up in the microwave."

Sarah tsked, then rose from the table. "Nonsense. I can do that."

"Sarah, it's not a problem – "

"I have to cover Mark's plate anyway," she answered, then taking both Hardcastle and McCormick's dinner plates, the housekeeper followed the judge into the kitchen.

As Hardcastle located the discarded pharmacy bag and began to search for the pertinent papers, Sarah set about covering Mark's plate with aluminum foil, and then placing it in the refrigerator. She next put the judge's plate in the microwave, covered it lightly with a plastic lid so that it wouldn't splatter, and set the timer.

"Hmm." Milt sat at the kitchen table, reading the paperwork from the ER. "Looks like he was right."

Sarah seated herself nearby. "What are you checking?"

Milt handed the paperwork over. "The kid said it was probably the side effects from the tetanus shot. And it sounds like it. He just needs some rest, most likely."

Sarah set the papers down slowly, pressing her hands flat against them, attempting to straighten out the wrinkles and creases. She gave a slight shake of her head, then spoke.

"Why did you have to go and do this, Your Honor?"

Milt lifted his head and looked back challengingly. "What, getting Portman? We had to get that guy dirty, he had his claws into that kid, making him run drugs for him. . . The boy would never have gotten out, he didn't have any chance to turn his life around with Portman breathing down his neck."

Sarah shook her head again. "I don't mean the case. I agree with what you did. I know you needed to help that poor boy, only seventeen. . . And hadn't you said it was his idea?"

Milt nodded shorty. "Yeah. He's got an uncle who works in Frank's department, a detective in Narcotics. Jason got a hold of him, Frank got a hold of us. . . " He spread his hands in a "and the rest is history" gesture. "The kid's uncle wasn't too keen on the setup today, but Jason had been missing from home for a year, and now he's back with his dad. And Portman's in custody. So I'd say that's a success."

"Other than Mark getting hurt."

The challenging expression had morphed into something more like guilt. "Sarah, we didn't know the guy had a knife. If I'd known, I wouldn't have made McCormick go after him without backup. I'm sorry, all right?"

"It wasn't your fault; you weren't the one who injured him. But I said it's not about the case, not really." Sarah paused. She looked past Hardcastle, her eyes unfocused.

The microwave timer rang, but neither of them responded to it. For at the same time, Sarah again began to speak.

"When you started this project of yours, bringing young men home – ex-cons – I didn't mind that much." Milt snorted, and Sarah smiled. "Oh, I know I complained. Another mouth to feed, and I had to watch the lawn and gardens get destroyed by whichever young man was here at the time. But I understood why you were doing it, that in a way you were continuing your wife's generous work. Plus, it was good for me, too. With Tom and Nancy both gone, this place was just too big, too quiet. Having someone here, even for just a few weeks or a month, helped. And the ex-cons that you selected to bring here weren't too worrisome – with the exception of J.J. Beal. And even his betrayal didn't really affect me – it was your car that was stolen. I didn't get to experience his criminal side until he made his return visit."

"Sarah, I felt horrible about that – "

She lifted a hand. "I'm not done." She had turned to face him. "I even understood how you wanted to change your project to a more definitive arrangement when you retired. That you needed something to keep you active, keep you from fading away. You'd had a reason to get up and go out and keep busy; a job, responsibilities, a career, for forty years – "

"Over forty years," he murmured.

She nodded in acknowledgement. "To go from that and then to nothing – it must have been very unsettling. You aren't the typical retiree. You don't golf, you don't travel for leisure, and there's only so much fishing you can do. So you devise this plan to go after your old cases, and you decide you need a partner, and then one night you show up at two in the morning with Mark, asking me to put him in the gatehouse, of all places. You never inquired what I thought about it. Other than asking me for his file a few days before, I had no clue what your plans were. I had figured you were just keeping tabs on Mark; you did that for many of the individuals that came through your courtroom – you still do. And after everything that happened with Mr. Beal, I was under the impression you were rethinking your 'partnership' idea. I was definitely not expecting you to bring Mark home that night."

Hardcastle was flabbergasted. Sarah had never spoken so candidly about his partnership with McCormick before, and he was distressed to hear the opinions she was now sharing. He had thought, from witnessing the interactions between the ex-con and the housekeeper, that the two had become close – almost like family. He wondered now if he had missed something. Possibly Sarah had only kept up pretenses for his sake, recognizing how the two men were becoming fast friends, and not wanting to threaten that burgeoning relationship. "I never knew you felt this way," he said honestly.

She made a dismissive wave. "It's your house, it was your decision. But did you even think about how it might impact me?" She pointed in the direction of the den. "Did you understand how much that young man in your study would disrupt my life?"

Milt sighed heavily, then swallowed. He hadn't, not really. He hadn't thought enough about how having an "indefinite" addition to Gulls' Way would affect Sarah. She'd criticized the short-timers, but her complaints had always been valid, or made because they were requested. And none of those ex-cons had stuck around long enough – even the ones that had kind of worked out – to cause them to drastically change their lives or routines. Not like McCormick had. An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he spoke it hesitantly, not wanting to hear an affirmative answer.

"Is that why you're leaving, Sarah? Because you have a problem with McCormick?" He looked at her regretfully. "I wish you would have said something sooner."

She gave an exasperated huff, and looked straight into his eyes. "Oh, for goodness' sake, I wouldn't do something like that. I do not run away from uncomfortable situations. And I do not have a problem with Mark. I have a problem with leaving him!"

It took a moment, but then the enormity of Sarah's statement finally registered. And Milt grinned. For her part, Sarah looked away in embarrassment, continuing to huff.

"Sarah, it's not like you're moving cross-country. So you'll be a few hours away. There's the phone, and we – "

"It's not the same," she interrupted. Her face had become glum. "How can I take care of him over the phone?"

Hardcastle lifted his eyes skyward. "He's a grown man, Sarah. And he's lived without us for nearly thirty years – "

She interrupted again. "How many of those years did he spend in some type of incarceration? Or without any kind of family?"

The question was valid, and prompted Hardcastle to look seriously at the woman. "I can't tell you not to worry about the kid, Sarah, but I don't think you need to. You're not the only one that can take care of him."

Sarah reached across the table and grasped her friend's hands. "I don't think I could leave without knowing that; that the two of you will be taking care of each other." She smiled knowingly at the judge.

Milt squeezed her hands, also smiling. "I'm gonna miss you, Sarah."

She didn't respond, only lowering her head to look at their joined hands. They sat quietly for several moments, until Sarah abruptly raised her head. "Oh, bless it." she said. "Your food's cold again."

And they both began to laugh.

**ooOoo**

Mark woke to the ringing of the phone, although he wasn't exactly sure what had woken him until he heard the judge's rough voice. "Yeah, Hardcastle here. Hey, Frank. You're not still at the station, are you?"

McCormick opened his eyes, and found he was staring at the back of the couch. Disoriented, he tried to remember what time it was and just how long he'd been asleep.

"He's still throwing a stink? What did he expect us to do, wait until the kid was in so deep there was no way to get him out?"

Mark adjusted himself on the couch, stretching slightly, and was aware of a blanket covering him. _Where did that come from? _

"All right, all right, Frank. I won't push." There was a pause, then Hardcastle spoke again. "Yeah, we'll stop by in the morning if McCormick's up to it." Another pause, this one more brief. "No, he's just pretty beat. Fell asleep in the middle of supper." Hardcastle was quiet, and then laughed loudy. "I know, that's what I said!"

McCormick grumbled to himself, sitting up on the couch. He caught up the blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders. Then he glared across the room at Hardcastle, who stared back with a sheepish grin.

"Frank, I gotta go. Okay, we'll see you tomorrow. 'Night." The judge hung up the phone, then addressed the ex-con. "You awake, huh?"

Mark grunted. "Frank?"

"Yeah. . . how much did you hear?"

"Enough to know I was the butt of a joke," Mark sulked.

"Oh, don't be so sensitive." Hardcastle left his desk, coming to sit on the edge of a chair near the couch. "You feeling better?"

McCormick looked thoughtful, then nodded. "Yeah, I am. I'm kind of hungry."

"Sarah will be glad to hear that. She saved your supper. Not to mention there were plenty of leftovers." Milt shook his head with a slight smile. "I think that's her plan – load up the fridge and freezer with leftovers before she leaves, so we don't have to cook for a while. Like you and I don't know how to cook."

"Not like her," McCormick said wistfully.

Hardcastle nodded in agreement, his smile turning down. Both men were silent for a few moments, caught up in their respective unhappy expectations of what would befall them in Sarah's absence.

Mark was the first to pull himself out of his dismal thoughts. "What did Frank call for? I thought you already talked to him, before supper."

Hardcastle gave a short laugh. "That was almost three hours ago. You've been sawing logs since then."

"Oh." McCormick looked over at the clock on the mantle, and saw it was nearly ten. "Huh. Sorry."

Milt shook his head with an exasperated sigh. "You were tired. Not like you missed anything – well, except supper."

"And Frank. What did you find out? What's up with Portman? Is Jason okay? What happened with him?"

Milt held up a hand, forestalling any more babbling questions. "Jason's all right. You know he was watching us, waiting for Frank and his guys to haul Portman away? He'd gotten on the roof of one of the nearby buildings, had a bird's-eye view. Anyway, once he was sure Portman was in custody and out of the picture, the kid got to the meeting point safe and sound. There's still a lot of stuff that needs to be settled, but he's back home with his dad now. Where he belongs."

McCormick breathed a relieved exhale, closing his eyes briefly. "Good. I just hope they can work things out."

"Well, that kinda depends on Jason. His dad wants him in rehab – "

"That's what started this whole thing, Judge!"

Milt looked levelly at his friend. "What, you think he doesn't need rehab?"

"No – no, that's not what I meant." Mark gestured absently with his hands, and the blanket slipped off his shoulders. "The whole 'my way or the highway' thing that his dad said, the big blowup Frank said they had – that's why Jason took off. I get it, it was supposed to be tough love or something like that, but the kid was sixteen, and you don't just throw a sixteen-year-old out in the street, especially one who's already a drug addict. I just don't want to see it happen again."

"I don't think we have to worry. His dad doesn't want it to happen again either. Frank said things look promising. And I think Jason will do just about anything to make sure he doesn't end up back where he was. L.A.'s a tough city for a homeless kid, even one that's sixteen or seventeen – there were a lot worse things that could have happened to him than what he got mixed up in. Gangs, prostitution – "

"You don't have to tell me that, Judge. L.A.'s not the only tough place for a homeless kid."

Milt leaned back slightly in his chair, studying Mark quietly. The younger man had again drawn up the blanket, and was now huddling under it. His face was blank, and even his eyes seemed empty. Hardcastle cast around quickly in his mind, mentally parsing through McCormick's file and trying to recall if the young man had ever been homeless. The earliest file entries were from when the kid was roughly fifteen – there was information about his time in foster care (mildly detailed) mixed in with his stints in juvie (much less detailed). But there was a lack of data, in between the final entry from Jersey and the first entry from Florida. . . Hardcastle was satisfied that the file he had on the ex-con was fairly thorough, but he had admitted – to McCormick himself – that there had been guesswork involved. He had "guessed" that the gap in official records simply meant the kid had been behaving himself. Now he wondered if it was because McCormick had been off the grid.

But one thing that was also not in McCormick's file was any indication of drug use.

"Yeah, well, as tough as things were, I don't imagine you were the kind of kid that would get himself mixed up in running or dealing drugs."

Mark's expression cleared somewhat; the dead look was replaced with surprise, then chagrin. "No, I just stole cars."

Hardcastle raised his eyebrows. "Ya did, huh?"

"Uh – when I say 'stole', it – I – well, I don't really mean – You know I repossessed cars – "

"Uh-uh. You didn't say repossessed. You said _stole_."

McCormick lifted a hand to his forehead, massaging it. "I just woke up. I don't know what I'm saying. Don't listen to me, okay, Judge?" His voice became plaintive, almost desperate.

Milt took a slow, deep breath, then exhaled loudly. "Fine. It's been a long day. We can talk about it later." He stood up. "I'm heading to bed. Why don't you go finish your supper, and then I think you should turn in too. I want to go see Frank in the morning."

"Okay." McCormick watched from the couch as Hardcastle headed up the steps and to the doors that led to the hallway. Before the older man crossed the threshold, Mark called out, "Judge?"

Milt paused, turned. "What?"

"Portman. Is he okay?"

"What?" the judge repeated.

"Well, I know he was coming around before the paramedics showed up, but he hit his head pretty hard, and I was just wondering. . . " Mark trailed off. Milt had stepped back in the room, and was now looking disbelievingly at the ex-con.

"Are you telling me you're worried about the guy that stabbed you?"

"Sliced."

"That's a distinction for you? Because you got lucky and didn't get hurt as bad as you could've, that means you didn't have a right to defend yourself?"

Mark shook his head stubbornly. "It's one thing to deck a guy, and stun him enough so you can get the upper hand. But it's not like he had a gun or anything, and I didn't intend to land the guy in the hospital." Both he and Portman had been treated in the same ER, but when Hardcastle and McCormick had left, the drug dealer was still in a cubicle – hand-cuffed to his bedrail and with a police officer standing nearby.

"But it was okay for him to land you in the hospital."

"That's not the point – "

"I'm just trying to clarify things," Hardcastle cut in.

"Ju-u-dge…"

The older man had come back to the chair he had previously been sitting in, but he refrained from again seating himself. He stood near the chair, his arms crossed, and gazed at the open look on his friend's face. Milt tried to scowl at McCormick, but something in the ex-con's expression – not to mention in his wheedling voice – tempered his incredulity. He had recognized, months ago now, that his partner was not a vengeful man, nor prone to physical violence. All his bluster and tough-guy attitude was a façade, shielding a decent and honorable young man.

_And isn't that ultimately why you picked him?_

"All right . . . I don't know why this should matter to you, but he's out of the hospital. He's got a mild concussion, but they can handle it in the jail infirmary – they're keeping him there overnight for observation. He should be in a regular cell tomorrow."

Mark's responding sigh was almost as relieved as the one he had expressed upon learning Jason's fate. "Okay, good." He smiled gratefully at the judge. "Thanks."

Milt hmmphed softly. "You done asking questions?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so."

"Good." Hardcastle gestured in the direction of the kitchen. "Go eat."

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_


	2. Chapter 2

**_Author's Note:_** I'm sorry Part 2 is such a long time in coming. I've been spending my time recently with a different type of a _Hardcastle and McCormick_ project. But I have a few days off from work next week, so hopefully Part 3 will be posted in a more timely manner.

**-ck**

_Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, _**_not_**_ for profit._

* * *

_**BAIT AND SNITCH, Part 2**_

**by InitialLuv**

It was half past ten when Hardcastle and McCormick arrived at Frank's office. Milt glanced in the door's window, saw Frank seated at his desk, and after a perfunctory knock, the judge opened the door. "Judge!" McCormick hissed. "What if he's busy – look, he's on the phone!"

"So we'll be quiet. He was expecting us. It's not a big deal, settle down."

Frank Harper looked up as the two men entered his office. Shaking his head wryly, he hung up the phone. "I was just about to call you guys."

"Why? You knew we were coming in." Hardcastle seated himself in a chair in front of Frank's desk.

"Sure I did – but I didn't know when. I was hoping you'd be here soon. . . There's been some 'developments.'"

"Developments?" McCormick asked. He was seated on the chair nearest the door, sitting forward with his hands clasped and resting between his knees. The casual position gave the impression that he was relaxed, but it was actually the opposite. Mark knew and trusted Lieutenant Harper, even though he'd only known the man a few months, but it didn't change the fact that he was in a building where he'd once been booked and tossed in a cell. He was anything but comfortable, and when he and Hardcastle visited Harper, McCormick had yet to seat himself more than two feet away from the door.

Frank regarded the ex-con. "How's the arm, Mark?"

McCormick gave his arm a quick shake. "Still attached."

Milt cleared his throat. "Frank. Developments, you said?"

The lieutenant turned his eyes back to Hardcastle. "Portman's lawyer is here. And she's not some green public defender – this woman's on track to make partner at her firm."

Mark scoffed. "Don't tell _me_ crime doesn't pay."

Hardcastle flapped a hand at him. "Quiet." He then addressed Frank. "So what if he's got a decent lawyer? I know a little about the law, too, you know. We've got a good case, plus now we've got assault and battery." He gestured at McCormick.

"Well, battery, at least," Mark said. "He didn't get much of a chance to threaten me."

The two older men looked at McCormick quietly. He fidgeted, then shrugged. "Sorry."

"Jailhouse lawyer," Milt muttered.

Harper grinned, his eyes crinkling. He chuckled, until he saw the look of frustration on Mark's face, and then he covered his laugh with a cough. Frank recognized – even if Milt hadn't – that the belittling comment had cut deeper than was intended.

The frustrated expression didn't last long. McCormick internally shrugged off the remark, and forced an attentive manner. "I get the feeling that you've got more to tell us than just what kind of counsel the guy's got. Frank?"

Taking the cue, Frank also became more serious. "You're right, Mark." He then turned to Hardcastle. "Portman wants to talk to you."

Milt placed a hand on his chest. "Me? What about?"

Frank shook his head. "They're not talking. Other than saying they want to talk to you – him and his lawyer both."

McCormick let his eyes track between the two men, waiting for a clarification. When neither spoke, he gave an exasperated huff. "C'mon. He wants to deal. That's gotta be it. So why aren't they talking to the D.A.?"

Harper nodded grudgingly. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too, Mark, but they asked for him." He cocked his head at the judge. "So what do you think, Milt? How do you want to play this?"

Hardcastle chewed his lip thoughtfully, then suddenly clapped his hands and rose. "Can't hurt, I suppose." He moved the door, slapping McCormick on the knee. "Get up, kiddo, let's go talk to the guy."

"Uh, Milt – " The judge stopped at the doorway, and Mark paused in mid-rise. "He only wants to talk to you," Frank continued. "Sorry, Mark."

"What the hell, Frank – "

"It's all right, Judge," Mark said quietly. "I'll just hang out here."

"Hell with that, Mark," Frank answered, coming out from behind his desk and joining the two men. "We're gonna go listen."

**ooOoo**

After letting Hardcastle into the client-lawyer conference room, Frank went to join Mark in the adjoining room. McCormick was leaning against the wall in the small space, intently watching the scene through the one-way glass. "She's gonna be a partner, huh?" he murmured, indicating the middle-aged lawyer with the no-nonsense business suit and pinned-up hair. She looked proper, intelligent, and a little stiff.

"That's the word."

"Too bad she has to represent scum like this to get there."

Harper looked side-long at the ex-con. "Everyone has the right to an attorney, Mark – it's in the Miranda. Whether they're 'scum' or just a kid who made a mistake. I know you know that."

Mark's shoulders tensed slightly, but after a few breaths he visibly relaxed. "Yeah, you're right." He snorted ruefully. "Although my counsel didn't do a heck of a lot for me – maybe if I woulda had someone like her, " he gestured at the window, "I wouldn't have gotten two years in Quentin for stealing my own car."

Frank was about to respond when McCormick quickly shushed him. "Hardcastle's signaling. Something's gonna happen."

**ooOoo**

After the introductions, Milt cast an appraising eye at the drug dealer. "How's the head, Solly?"

Portman glowered back. "Better. No thanks to that guard dog of yours, Hardcase. I see you left him behind like I asked. I hope if you left him in the car you cracked the windows."

"My _partner_," Milt stressed, "was just defending himself, before you could stab him in the gut."

"What the hell do you think I was doin'?" Portman returned hotly. "Your guy was gonna pound me into next week – I was only protecting myself, trying to not get my face bashed in. And what did I get for it? A damn concussion!"

The lawyer placed a restraining hand on her client's arm. "Solomon. This is not constructive, and not why Judge Hardcastle is here. Let's get to the matter at hand."

The judge and the drug dealer traded glares. Then Portman looked away, sighed angrily, and backed down. "Fine," he muttered.

Milt fought the urge to look at the mirror. He knew Frank and McCormick should be watching, and he desperately hoped they were paying attention. He reached up to straighten the ball cap on his head, in a half-hearted attempt at a signal.

"All right, let's hear it, Portman."

There was another sigh, then: "I want to deal."

"I'm not the district attorney; I'm not even the ADA. I can't make a deal with ya, Sol."

Portman shook his head. "Don't give me that crap. I know you've got pull. The cops around here can't sneeze without asking you for a hanky first."

Milt tried not to grin, knowing Frank probably wouldn't appreciate it. Portman went on. "So I figured I'd talk to you first, ya know, and maybe you could make nice to the D.A., get him to take my offer."

"Depends on what you got to offer."

Portman leaned over the table. "I'm nothin', man. I'm a minnow, okay? You want the whale."

Milt crossed his arms, sending a mirthless smile at the criminal. "I think you mean shark, Solly."

"No, I said whale, I mean whale. You know, like Moby Dick? Hard to catch, elusive."

Somewhat surprised that Portman knew the definition of the word "elusive," Hardcastle looked back with interest. "Who's this whale you're talking about? What's he to you?"

Portman sneered. "What, you think my prod – _merchandise_ drops outta the sky?" He shot a guilty look at his attorney for the slip. "I got a . . . contact. You ever hear of Nicky Acevedo?"

Milt inhaled, then let out a long breath. "Nicky Acevedo. You can get me Nicky Acevedo?"

The drug dealer smiled, a hard glint in his eyes. "I can tell you dates, locations, I can even get you the damn inside man. You think it's just luck that Nicky's never been caught? He's got eyes everywhere."

"And how would you know all of this? Why would Acevedo share all this info with a minnow like you?"

Portman straightened in an attempt of dignity. "Maybe I didn't want to stay a minnow. Maybe I was poking around some, keeping my ear to the wall. Never hurts to have some information."

"Yeah, especially when you can use that info to save yourself when you're stupid enough to fall into a trap."

The dignity gone, Portman sneered at the judge. "I don't care what you think my reason is. Whatever works for you. But the end result is I can get you someone big, someone the cops can't get on their own."

"And what do you get?"

Portman attempted to wave his hands out benignly; as they were cuffed, the action lost its meaning. He instead used his voice and face to convey his desire. "Freedom," he stated simply, his eyes locked on Hardcastle's.

The judge leaned forward, staring into the criminal's eyes. "So you want the drug deal thrown out."

"Who said it was a drug deal?" The man's eyes widened in surprise. "I was just the middle-man, a guy helping another guy make a delivery. If there were drugs in the package, I sure didn't know about them."

Hardcastle sat back with a frown. _First he's talking about his "merchandise" and how it comes from Acevedo. The next minute he's acting like he's a babe in the woods who's never even smoked a cigarette. Slimy, two-faced, opportunistic, son of a – _

The judge abruptly rose, then went to knock on the one-way mirror. "Frank! I'm done in here!"

Frank was at the door within moments, McCormick right on his heels. As Frank unlocked the door so Milt could exit the room, Portman looked out into the hall, and his eyes landed on McCormick. The drug dealer's face clouded over, his mouth setting in a thin line.

As for Mark, he leaned around Frank and waved happily at Portman. "Hi, Sol! How's it hanging?"

Before Portman could respond, Milt grabbed McCormick's good arm, forcing the young man back down the hallway.

**ooOoo**

Hardcastle and McCormick made it to Frank's office several minutes before the lieutenant, and Mark took the opportunity to question his mentor. "So what's the plan, Judge? Should we get some harpoons and go after Acevedo?"

Milt shot a scowl at the younger man, then dropped into a chair – the exact one that Mark typically chose. "We'll talk about it when Frank gets here."

McCormick looked around the office, then gravitated toward the partially open door. "Where are you goin'?" the judge asked, irritated.

"Nowhere. Just looking for Frank." Mark glanced out in the hallway. "What's he doing, anyway? Can't he get a uniform to walk the guy back to his cell?"

"You in a hurry or something?" The irritation had faded somewhat, now replaced with a mild curiosity. "Sit down, willya?"

McCormick leaned against the wall near the door. "Nah, I'm good. I'll stand."

Hardcastle shifted on his seat, turning to look directly at McCormick. "What's wrong with you?"

Mark was saved from having to answer by Frank's arrival; he moved aside to let the lieutenant enter. Frank glanced at the two men as he passed them on the way to his desk. "What's going on?"

Milt waved him off. "Nothing. So you listened in, right? What did you think?"

Frank seated himself, then steepled his hands together. "I thought he was talking out of his blowhole."

McCormick _hmmped_, and the judge rolled his eyes. "Lord, more _Moby-Dick_ references."

"What I want to know," Frank continued, "is what _you_ think. He chose to talk to you. Do you think he's credible?"

"Yeah, Captain Ahab," Mark threw in, grinning widely. "You gonna talk to the D.A., pull some strings?"

"I don't pull strings!" Milt responded automatically. "But you can bet I'm gonna talk to the D.A. And I'm gonna tell him to not even entertain the thought of making any kind of deal with Portman. He's just a low-life weasel looking to cover his tail because he knows he's in deep. We worked too hard to catch him dirty – Jason put himself on the line to bring the guy in, and he wasn't the only one." He gestured at McCormick's bandaged arm. "No, Portman's staying in jail where he belongs, and he's going to get charged with drug possession and sale, battery, assault with a deadly weapon, and whatever else we can hang on him."

Frank nodded with a knowing smile, and Mark shook his head. "You're something else, Hardcase," he said sincerely.

"Now you're cookin'." The judge smiled as well, then rose. "Well, we'd better get out of here so Frank can get some work done." Hardcastle pulled lightly at McCormick's arm. "C'mon, Queequeg."

"_Queequeg_?" Frank heard Mark repeat as the two left his office. "Judge, he's the cannibal!"

"Yeah, so what's your point?"

"Do I look like a tattooed cannibal? Wait – don't answer that."

The two men bickered good-naturedly as they walked down the hall and out to the truck, and continued to do so for most of the ride home.

* * *

The next morning marked the second day in a row with no basketball at Gulls' Way. Mark was taking a break from the game because of his bandaged arm, and Milt had even foregone his typical "100 jump shots, 100 free throws, and 100 lay-ups," knowing that the noise would rouse his injured ward. Although, as he was getting used to rising early, McCormick was wide awake at seven. His hunger was awake as well, which led to Mark being dressed and in the main house kitchen by seven-thirty. Once there, he found Hardcastle at the stove, working on cooking an egg and meat breakfast. The sight was definitely not what Mark had anticipated. "Aw, Sarah's off today," he groaned. "I forgot."

Hardcastle cast a look over his shoulder. "Set the table."

McCormick went to retrieve plates, silverware, and juice glasses, grumbling under his breath. "Don't know why she had to take off, she's gonna be leaving soon as it is, you'd think she'd want to spend more time with us, now I gotta eat Hardcase's excuse for breakfast. . . "

The food had just been dished out when the phone rang. As he was still on his feet, the judge crossed to the phone and grabbed the receiver. "Hello? Hi, Frank. Why the early call?"

Mark listened distractedly as he shoveled eggs in his mouth, then chased them down with orange juice.

"Yeah, we're not going anywhere. Okay, see you soon." Hardcastle hung up the phone and came to sit at the table, but he didn't start to eat. Instead he stared unseeingly at his plate. Mark swallowed another bite, then asked, "Judge? Everything okay?"

"Hmm?" Milt looked up. "Oh, uh, Frank's coming by. Should be here in less than an hour. He sounded – off. I don't know."

"What did he say?"

"Just that he needed to talk to both of us." Milt picked up his fork and speared a piece of ham. "Said it was something he didn't want to get into on the phone."

The rest of breakfast was quiet and pensive, as both men considered what news the police lieutenant might be bringing to Gulls' Way.

**ooOoo**

Milt let Harper in the front door, then waved him into the den. "You made good time, Frank."

Frank gazed around the room. "Yeah, traffic was heavier going the other way. Mark here?"

"He's cleaning up the breakfast dishes. Hang on." Hardcastle stepped back into the hallway, and hollered in the direction of the kitchen. "McCormick! Frank's here!"

Mark came down the hall a few moments later, a dish towel still in his hands. "You bellowed?"

"Yeah, get in here, okay? Frank's here."

Milt returned to the den and took a seat behind his desk; Frank sat in the chair on his right. He looked up at Mark, who was still standing near the steps, wiping his hands on the dish towel. "Mark, you want to sit down?" Harper requested.

Mark shook his head, bemused. "Frank, what the hell is going on?" Tossing the towel onto the iron railing, he moved closer to the two men, but remained standing. He stared at Frank warily.

Harper sighed heavily, then turned to Milt. "All right. I just got the news this morning. I don't have all the specifics, but I have enough. . . It probably happened last night, after midnight. . ." He suddenly looked tired. He ran his hands over his face and rubbed at his temples before continuing.

"Jason Graham was found dead this morning."

There was a beat of silence, broken by the sudden noise of McCormick collapsing into a chair.

"Found dead?" Milt echoed, his voice flat.

"By a couple of beat cops, near Fifth and Spring. A bag lady waved them down. She'd found him in an alley, by a restaurant dumpster. She was looking to see if the restaurant had tossed any edible food. She got quite a shock."

Mark was breathing rapidly, trying to comprehend what was happening. "Overdose?" he asked, the single word a quaking whisper.

Frank gave a tight shake of his head. "Don't know – I won't have that information until after the autopsy. But I don't think so. He was shot."

Milt's head jerked up. "Shot?"

Frank gave an affirmative nod. "Maybe a drug deal gone bad?" Milt said next.

Before Frank could answer, Mark broke in. "What happened?" he asked plaintively. "Did he have another fight with his dad? What was he doing out there in the middle of the night? Frank, what the hell _happened_?"

"I don't know yet, Mark. His dad didn't even know he was gone, thought he was in bed. He didn't know any different until the cops came knocking on his door at six this morning."

"Damn," Hardcastle breathed, rubbing at his mouth.

Frank went on. "And I don't think it was a bad drug deal either, Milt. Not the way he was shot."

"It wasn't – self-inflicted, was it, Frank?" Mark's eyes were wide and fearful.

"No. Back of the head. Execution-style."

Again silence fell over the room. For McCormick it had a tangible weight to it, an almost suffocating force, and he had to mentally push himself up to the surface. When he broke through he was breathless and queasy. Milt looked at him closely, alarmed by the sudden pallor and short breaths. "You okay, kiddo?"

"It was retaliation," Mark choked out.

Frank nodded grimly. "That's what it looks like to me."

"Who? Acevedo?" Milt wondered.

Frank shrugged, opening his mouth to answer, but Mark's words cut him off. "It's our fault. It's all our fault. We screwed up. He should've been in a safe house, or just had a cop keeping watch on him, tailing him."

"He did, kind of," Harper said. "His uncle – Detective Arnold – was keeping an eye on him, both on and off the clock." He eyed the judge, and continued cautiously. "Uh, Milt, he was in my office already this morning, right before I left to come out here. . . If you thought he wasn't your number one fan before, that's nothing compared to how he feels about you now. He said he holds you personally responsible for getting his sister's kid killed."

"He's right!" McCormick stood up. "We are responsible!"

"Mark – "

"Kiddo – "

Mark turned on Frank. "If his uncle was supposedly watching him, how did he sneak out? How did he get downtown with no one knowing?"

"I don't know, Mark! I told you, we don't have all the specifics yet! We still haven't got the ballistics report, and I said we had to wait for the autopsy – "

"Autopsy?" Mark repeated, his voice raising in pitch. "Autopsy. He was seventeen! He should have had decades ahead of him, a _life_, and instead all there is is an autopsy, and a funeral!" He turned abruptly and made for the steps and the door. "I gotta get out of here. I need some air."

Frank rose, taking a hesitant step. "Mark, I'm sorry – "

McCormick waved an impatient hand, not looking back. Then next thing the lieutenant and the judge heard was the front door, slamming loudly after Mark's exit.

Milt rubbed the back of his neck, his face somber. "You know McCormick had the most contact with Jason before we set up the stakeout – it just made more sense, in case someone saw them together. Easier to explain than me meeting with the boy. And Mark liked him. I liked him, too, but McCormick – he saw himself in that kid. This is gonna be rough on him."

Frank gazed out the windows behind Milt's desk, scanning the grounds for a sight of Mark. "You think I should find him, try to talk to him?"

"No. . . I'll take care of him. You should head back to work. I'm sure you've got a lot on your plate now with this."

Frank grunted softly. "You have no idea," he muttered. He trudged wearily to the den steps, but turned before leaving the room. "I _am_ sorry, Milt. Make sure Mark knows that."

The judge raised his hand in a solemn wave. Frank gave a short nod, and then he was gone.

After the sound of Frank's car had faded away, Milt rose slowly from his desk, sighing remorsefully. Then he began his search for the grieving ex-con.

* * *

_**TO BE CONTINUED...**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Author's Note: _**I had hoped to finish this story in this chapter, but I get impatient and want to post. If you've read my fics, you know this. :) Anyway, there should be one more chapter (the conclusion) after this one.

**-ck**

_Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, _**_not_**_ for profit._

* * *

_**BAIT AND SNITCH, Part 3**_

**by InitialLuv**

After a cursory search of the estate, Hardcastle moved to the edge of the lawn, near the low wall, where he could view the beach below. Even though it was an overcast day with a chill in the February air, he was not surprised to see a familiar figure sitting on the sand. Milt detoured back into the house to grab a jacket for both him and McCormick before heading down to the beach himself.

Mark didn't acknowledge the other man's approach, and when Hardcastle held out the jacket to him, the younger man took it without comment. He didn't put it on, instead just holding it in his lap. He bunched up the material in his fists.

"You're supposed to wear that. I know it's California, but that doesn't mean it's eighty-five and sunny 365 days a year."

"I know that. I've lived out here over five years – I'm sure that's in my file." Mark kept his face and body angled away from Hardcastle. "It's still a heck of a lot warmer than Jersey in February."

Milt lowered himself to the sand, grunting softly when his bottom hit the ground. "Frank's worried about you," he said. It was easier than expressing his own concern for the ex-con.

"Is he gone?"

"Yeah. He's gonna have his hands full with this snafu."

"Snafu," McCormick mumbled. "Yeah, this is f'd-up, all right."

Hardcastle muttered a sound of agreement.

Both men were quiet for a moment, watching the waves crash and the seagulls whirl. McCormick spoke first, turning to face the judge.

"You know when Jason told me he first started using, Judge?"

Milt raised his eyebrows in question, shook his head negatively.

"It was after his mom died. She'd had some prescription pain pills in the house, from when she got sick, and he started taking them. His dad didn't know at first – he was out of it himself, you know, grieving. . . And by the time he did realize what was going on, Jason was addicted. He'd gone through all of his mom's pills and found a kid at school who could get him more."

"I thought it was heroin. I saw the kid's arms, McCormick."

"Yeah, that was later. . . First he went from swallowing the pills to crushing them and snorting them. But they ended up getting too expensive, and that's when he switched to heroin. It was a little cheaper, 'easier' to use. Quicker high. And his dad saw his arms, too. That's when they had the big fight and he tossed Jason out."

Milt looked carefully at the younger man. "How do you know all of this?" he asked seriously. "Painkillers versus heroin and all that?"

McCormick gave a light scoff. "I was in prison, Judge. I learned a lot of stuff. Hell, prison was more of a refresher course for what I'd already learned in juvie. Doesn't mean I acted on any of it. I – I saw what being addicted to alcohol did to my uncle. That was all I needed to encourage me to get my highs through racing, and nowhere else."

The judge breathed a low sigh of relief. "Okay. . . But how did you find out this stuff about Jason? When did he tell you these things?"

"You set it up. You had me meet with him, so we could get the intel on the when and where of his regular exchange with Portman."

"Those meetings were ten minutes at a time, max." Hardcastle waited, but Mark just shook his head, not responding. A brisk wind blew in off the ocean, buffeting them both. Milt tightened his jacket around himself, and McCormick shivered. His hair blew back from his face, and the judge saw the lines of tension and pain that had previously been shadowed by the curls.

Milt snatched the jacket off McCormick's lap, and held it out. "Put this damn thing on. You need some help? How's your arm?"

"It's fine." McCormick pushed his arms into his jacket; the judge didn't fail to see how the bandage on Mark's right arm bunched up under the sleeve.

"Isn't it time you changed that bandage? Put the medicine on your arm?"

"I don't exactly have it with me, Judge."

"I didn't mean – " Milt dropped it, in favor of the previous question that hadn't been answered. "Never mind. You were gonna tell me how you knew those things about Jason."

Mark sighed, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. "He called me."

"He called you?"

"Yeah. When he could get to a pay phone on the street, or sometimes from whatever flophouse he was staying at. He was trying to get off the smack, and I guess I was kind of his sponsor. He knew I wouldn't judge him . . . I'd try to talk him down, get him to tell me what was going on in his head. He wasn't that bad of a kid."

"Never said he wasn't."

McCormick continued as if he hadn't heard the judge's comment. "He was just in a helluva bad situation. He wanted out so bad, but he was scared and paranoid, and didn't know who he could trust. I convinced him to trust us. And look where that got him." Mark's voice cracked, and his head dropped.

Milt reached out instinctively to place a comforting hand on the younger man's back, and then gripped Mark's shoulder, massaging it lightly. For a brief second McCormick seemed to melt into the touch, and then he jerked away roughly. "I'm all right!" he said, but the quick hand he drew across his eyes said otherwise.

"Oh, yeah, you're great. That's why you're yelling at Frank and hiding out down here and lyin' to me."

"When did I lie to you?" Mark demanded, glaring at Milt.

"Just now. When you said you were all right."

Mark laughed humorlessly. The laugh degraded into a half-sob, and he choked it back. "Damn, I don't know why this hurts so bad! What was that kid to me? His father and his uncle – I can't even imagine how they must be feeling!"

"So what if you weren't a relative? Don't discount how you're feeling, kiddo. It was a tragic, senseless death, and you can't just shake that off." Hardcastle's face was hard, but his light blue eyes were bright and glistening.

"What are we gonna do, Judge?" McCormick looked hopelessly out at the water.

Milt struggled to his feet, then held out a hand to Mark. "First, we're going to change the bandage on your arm. Then we're gonna see if Frank has any news for us."

Mark let Hardcastle help him up, and then he stood and stared at his mentor. "And after that?"

"Then we pull ourselves together, and go to a funeral."

* * *

Frank didn't have any information to share until late the next day. And very little of it was good.

"_I've got one toxicology report from the autopsy,"_ the lieutenant's voice came out tinnily from the speakerphone. _"These are just the preliminary results, but so far the only substance found in Jason's system was marijuana." _

"So it wasn't an overdose," McCormick said. He was standing next to the judge's chair, arms crossed and head down. Hardcastle glanced up at him, then turned his attention back to the phone.

"_It's still hard to say, Mark. Like I said, these are the preliminary results – there's a lot more testing that needs to be done. He **could** have been incapacitated before being shot. We know he was a drug user, so further testing may show positive results for opioids. But my money is on the gunshot wound being the cause of death, and the medical examiner is inclined to agree." _

"So are you officially declaring this a murder, Frank?" Hardcastle questioned.

Frank's sigh was easily heard over the speaker. _"Right now it's an **alleged** homicide."_ Mark snorted. _"That doesn't mean we aren't working as hard to find out what happened, Mark,"_ Harper continued, obviously having heard the noise, and correctly identifying which man had made it.

Milt edged an elbow back into McCormick's gut. "Sorry, Frank," the ex-con said quietly.

"_It's all right, Mark. I know this has to be frustrating for you." _

"What about the ballistics report?" Milt asked next. "Got anything there?"

"_Yeah, but it's not on any report yet. Just the M.E. and I know right now. It was a .38, one shot. There was no exit wound __– t__he bullet was still lodged in his skull, near the left eye socket. We don't know what kind of gun yet, but we should –"_ There was a slight 'thud' that interrupted Frank's words. _"Milt? Everything okay?"_

"Hang on, Frank." At the mention of the bullet still being present in Jason's skull, McCormick had stepped back a foot, bumping into the windows behind the judge's desk. Hardcastle swiveled around on his chair to see that Mark's face was pale, with a shade of green.

"You all right?"

Mark swallowed, shook his head. "Ah, I gotta go – you can fill me in later." He pushed past the judge, and made for the hall bathroom.

"_Milt? What's going on?"_

Hardcastle hit the "speaker" button, directing the sound back to the handset. "Uh, McCormick got a little shook up by the bullet-wound description."

There was a pause before Frank spoke again._ "I did too, honestly. I hadn't seen Jason until I went down to the morgue to talk to the M.E. It's bad, Milt. From the initial damage to how they had to dig out the bullet. . . It's definitely going to be a closed casket. There's no way he can be made. . . 'presentable.'"_

Milt ran a hand over his face. He glanced in the direction of the bathroom.

"Frank, I'm gonna have to go and check on the kid – you'll let me know about the funeral, right? I haven't seen an obit in the paper yet. I suppose because of the autopsy it'll be maybe the day after tomorrow or so?"

_"Milt, I'm not – well, you might want to think about that. Coming to the funeral, I mean. I don't know if you would be welcome. You and Mark both." _

This time the pause was from Hardcastle, as he tried to formulate a response without losing his temper. He finally decided the only way he could do that was to disconnect the call. "We'll talk about it later," he grumbled. "I gotta go, Frank."

Milt was still sitting at his desk, angrily staring at the phone, when Mark came back into the room. He was walking slowly, and he lowered himself gingerly into a chair. Hardcastle looked up, his expression morphing from angry to concerned with the change in view. "You okay, kiddo?"

McCormick shrugged. "Just kind of surprised me, is all."

"You toss your cookies?"

Mark rolled his eyes, then changed the subject. "You got off the phone pretty fast."

"Yeah." Hardcastle tapped his fingers on the desk, scowling. His eyes tracked away from Mark, to gaze unfocused at the opposite wall.

"What's wrong?"

The tapping hand closed into a fist. "Frank doesn't think we should go to Jason's funeral."

"Oh." Mark ran his hands over his knees, frowning deeply. "Maybe we shouldn't."

"Kid, I know you don't like funerals. I get it – especially one like this."

"Nobody likes funerals. At least, no one should. But that's not what I mean." McCormick swallowed, grimaced slightly. "We got him killed. It's our fault he's dead." He lowered his head. "I don't think we belong at the funeral, Judge. We won't be welcome."

Milt shook his head tightly, then moved his desk chair so he was closer to McCormick, and swiveled it so he could face the young man. He leaned forward, staring hard at the ex-con, and didn't speak until he saw Mark looking back just as intently.

"I want you to listen to me, McCormick: the only person responsible for Jason's death is the son-of-a-bitch who shot him. You understand?"

"Whoever shot him did it because he snitched. For us." Mark's expression was hostile, yet his voice wavered. "Because he helped us get Portman. I hope it was worth it, Judge. We got a dime-a-dozen drug dealer and only killed a seventeen-year-old kid in the process."

Hardcastle closed his eyes briefly, breathed a long exhale, then tried again. "Mark – "

"No!" McCormick rose quickly. "Don't do that! Don't 'Mark' me!" He pointed an accusing finger at the judge. "You know I'm right! We didn't follow through, we didn't make sure he was okay, and now he's dead! It was our responsibility to keep him safe!"

"Where do you get that? If it was anyone's responsibility, it was Frank's. And he took care of it – the kid's uncle was keeping an eye on him. He's a cop, he knew what he was doing. Not to mention he was a relative, so he knew Jason more than the average uniform that would have had guard duty."

"What, because he's Jason's uncle he would've been able to watch him better?" Mark scoffed. "He wasn't the same kid his family knew. Even before his dad threw him out he had changed – that was the whole problem, the whole reason they fought. He'd been on the streets for a year; I'll bet he knew exactly when and how to sneak out without anyone knowing." Mark's shoulders slumped, and he looked miserably at Hardcastle. "Damn, this thing is so screwed up, Judge."

"I know, kiddo." The judge gestured at the chair Mark had recently vacated. "Sit back down, okay?"

Mark returned to the chair, but sat on the very edge of it, still too agitated to relax. He saw Milt was studying him closely, and he glanced away self-consciously. When the judge didn't speak, Mark chanced a quick look and saw he was still being watched. "What?" he asked tensely.

"How much did you really talk to Jason?"

Mark shrugged. "I don't know."

"Yes you do. How many times did he call you?" McCormick squirmed slightly. "And before you try to lie, I figure he had to be calling collect, right? So I can just check your phone bill."

"You can if you get the mail before I do."

"_McCormick!_"

Mark jerked at the yell, not expecting it in the context of the current conversation. Milt put out an apologetic hand. "Sorry. I'm a little worked up," he mumbled.

"'s'okay."

The judge nodded shortly. "I still want you to answer the question."

"I don't know. From the first time, until right before the stakeout . . . maybe seven times."

"_Seven?_ In less than two weeks?"

"Well, one night he called me twice. . . " McCormick sighed, then lowered his eyes to scrutinize the whirls and random patterns in the wood floor. "You know that first time we met with him?" Frank had provided them with an unobtrusive car from the police motor pool, so that they wouldn't be obviously recognized. Hardcastle had stayed near the vehicle, while Jason had led Mark to the back entrance of a questionable tattoo parlor, where the two could talk privately. "I gave him your card, and told him to call you. Well, my number was on the back of your card, and he called me that night, at about two in the morning. He wanted to know if he could trust you."

"So he called you first, before he called to talk to me?" Milt clarified. Mark nodded.

"He didn't have any problem trusting you?"

Mark smiled gently. If he was bothered by the slightly jealous question, he didn't show it. "I guess not. I only talked to him a few minutes when I first met him, but I don't know. . . Maybe Frank or his uncle had said something to him about me, my background; maybe I'm just more approachable. I mean, Judge, you have to admit, sometimes you come off as a little . . . scary."

Hardcastle grunted, but his eyes shifted, and Mark's smile became more genuine. It didn't last long, though, and soon the gloomy expression had returned.

"Anyway, I think he saw a sort of kindred spirit in me. He just kept. . .calling. Most of the time he couldn't talk long, you know?" Milt nodded, and Mark continued. "So he was pretty specific about what he wanted to talk about. There was stuff he told me that he knew his family wouldn't understand, and that you probably wouldn't 'approve' of."

"Like what?" Milt asked, his eyes narrowed.

Mark adjusted himself on the chair, edging forward a bit more so that he was barely seated. "Just – well, I was just _talking_, okay, it's not like I could 'show' him anything – but I kind of gave him some tips on how to take care of himself. How to find food and a safe place to stay, stuff like that."

An impatient frown joined the narrowed eyes, and McCormick spread his hands out in a supplicating gesture. "Judge, he knew most of it already, he'd been on the streets a long time, but the fact that I was trying to help him there, instead of just telling him he had to come home, well, I think he appreciated that." When the judge's expression didn't change, Mark began to ramble. "I did tell him he had to come home, I told him that too, I know that's what we were ultimately trying to do, I didn't give him any idea that he should stay on the streets, really." He paused, then cocked his head in an embarrassed manner. "Except maybe I wasn't so encouraging when it came to rehab."

"McCormick –" the judge growled.

"Judge, you have to understand where I'm coming from!" McCormick said earnestly. "I know what it's like, to be confined someplace, and forced to talk to shrinks, and made to feel like you're inadequate and screwed-up, and, and _wrong_. . ." He was shaking his head as he talked. "It doesn't matter if it's because you're in juvie or prison or rehab, it's all the same. It's just one more way to make you feel like crap. Like you don't feel that way already."

Milt waited a moment before attempting to respond. He didn't want to immediately disagree with McCormick, even though his experiences did not mirror the ex-con's. Hardcastle's familiarity with therapy had included couple's counseling with his wife during the near-divorce, and the occasions he'd been required to talk to a department psychologist when he was a police officer. Those situations had not exactly been negative, yet he'd never been an open proponent of therapy. He'd been raised in a family who expected its members to "pull themselves up by their own boot straps," and Milt still believed in that adage for himself. But at the same time, he was smart enough to know that there were many people who couldn't handle certain problems alone, and would be best helped by an educated professional.

Although being "forced" to accept professional help, when you were bound and determined to not listen or take anything useful out of the situation, whether it was because of prior bad experiences or just blatant mistrust. . . If that was McCormick's view, Hardcastle had to admit he understood why the younger man had not extolled the virtues of rehab to Jason.

But Milt wasn't about to embolden it.

"McCormick, the kid was an addict. And no matter what you thought of him, or rehab, personally, that was the best future for him." He spoke softer than his earlier growl, although his words were relatively what he had planned to say before McCormick had interrupted him.

Mark flicked his eyes away, obviously disagreeing, but his next words effectively dropped the subject.

"He'd dead. It doesn't matter what would have been his best future now."

McCormick rose again, making to leave the den, but Milt's quiet voice stopped him. "I'm sorry, kiddo. I know this whole thing is hard on you." He shook his head sadly. "It doesn't make any sense."

Mark turned back. "No, it doesn't! None of this does!" He moved back to the chair, but didn't sit. "Why would he try so _hard_, Judge, why was it so important to him to get away from Portman, to get home safe, and then throw it all away barely two days later? Why did he do that?" he asked despairingly. "Why would he go back down there?"

"He was an addict, kid."

"No, I don't – " McCormick dropped back into the chair. "Frank said they only found marijuana in his system!"

Milt shook his head again. "That was only the preliminary results. It can take weeks to get back all of the autopsy results."

"But I was talking to him, Judge! He was kicking the heroin, I know he was! And didn't Frank say things were going okay when he got home, that he and his dad were working things out?" Hardcastle opened his mouth to respond, but McCormick continued. "I know, I know, he'd only been home a couple of hours when Frank said that, but he also told us yesterday that Jason's dad didn't suspect that he'd sneaked out. Because he didn't have any reason to."

"You don't know that. Maybe Jason was hiding something from him, maybe he had a different reason for sneaking out."

Mark looked at the judge for a beat, his face almost going slack with the sudden possibility. "Maybe he did," he said in a near-whisper. "Maybe someone just made it _look_ like he was shot because he snitched. Maybe there's something else, something we missed."

Hardcastle heaved a sigh. "McCormick, just because you don't want to accept what happened –"

"No, Judge! That's not what I'm – What would it hurt to check? To talk to his dad, call Frank, find out what forensics found at the scene. . . C'mon, this is what we do!" Mark stressed.

Milt leaned back in his chair, covering his eyes with a hand.

"Please, Judge?"

Hardcastle peeked out from under his hand, saw a pair of hopeful blue eyes staring at him.

"Please?"

* * *

_**TO BE CONCLUDED...**_


	4. Chapter 4

**_Author's Note:_** This is the "final" chapter; an Epilogue will follow. But most of the case is solved in this chapter. Hopefully I didn't give too much away in previous chapters, and that there are a few surprises.

There is a flashback in this chapter. The flashback is in italics.

Again, sorry for the long time between posts. I got a year older, then I got sick, then I got bifocals – it's been a trying time. :)

**-ck**

_Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, _**_not_**_ for profit._

* * *

_**BAIT AND SNITCH, Part 4**_

**by InitialLuv**

Frank Harper gazed steadily at the two men standing in his office, and tried his damnedest to not let his friendship with them affect his judgement.

Although maybe it wouldn't be _that_ difficult. . . Hardcastle and McCormick had descended upon his office mid-morning – unannounced, and asking the impossible. Frank found that he wasn't in the most charitable mood.

"There's nothing more to be done," he said. "The forensics team already spent hours at the scene, the M.E. doesn't have any further information, and I really think you should stay as far away as possible from Jason's father. The guy's been through enough."

"Frank, I'm just trying to figure out what Jason was doing down there when he got shot," McCormick defended himself. "If there was some other reason why he was there, something other than just getting a fix – "

"Then, what, Mark?" Frank said heatedly. "Do you think if you get your conscience relieved, that it's gonna bring the kid back?"

Mark snapped his mouth shut, suddenly becoming rigid. Hardcastle moved a step ahead of the ex-con, adapting a protective pose. "That wasn't necessary, Frank."

Harper grimaced, then rubbed his mouth. "I know, Milt, this case is just getting to me."

"I don't think I'm the one need to apologize to."

Mark dropped his head. "Judge, it's okay – "

"No, no, it's not," Frank said, looking openly at McCormick. "He's right. Mark, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be taking my frustrations out on you. I know you guys are only trying to help." He turned to Milt. "But no one's asking for your help. This thing is screwed up seven ways from Sunday and if you try to get involved again, I just don't see what good you could do."

Mark persisted, forcing himself to speak slowly, knowing that an excited ramble might get him another tongue-lashing. "The only reason I brought it up is because I thought, that if Jason was down there for a reason different from drugs, that it might give us another direction to go when trying to find out who killed him."

Frank sighed, again rubbing at his face. "I appreciate that, Mark. And maybe after the funeral I can talk to Jason's dad. But you two need to stay away from this. I'm telling you, you shouldn't even be here. The Commissioner's on my butt, and if he knows I've been talking to the two of you about this case – hell, if he knows I've been talking to you period – I'm going to get removed as the lead officer, and then we'll never figure out what all happened. It'll be chalked up as a cold case and thrown in a file somewhere."

"I can't believe his uncle would let that happen," Milt disagreed.

"Now, see, that's why you guys need to back off," Frank replied. "Detective Arnold told me today he just wants the funeral and everything over with. He said his brother-in-law doesn't need a murder investigation dragging on – it wasn't that long ago that the man's wife died, you know."

"But you can't just drop it, Frank!" McCormick came away from the safety of the door, approaching Frank's desk. Milt placed a hand on his shoulder, restraining him gently.

"I'm not planning on it. As long as I'm allowed to investigate this, I will. But leave the kid's family be." Frank stood, staring directly at Mark. "Leave. It. Alone."

McCormick stared back, his eyes locking with Frank's. Neither the lieutenant nor the ex-con seemed ready to back down. It was a bemused comment from Hardcastle that finally caught Frank's attention.

"Arnold's here? Shouldn't he be on bereavement leave?"

Frank blinked, pulling back from the challenging pose; Mark backed away as well, and pointed his gaze at anything else in the room, suddenly unwilling to again make eye-contact with Harper.

"Ah, yeah, he is," Frank answered the judge. "He was here when the call came in about Jason, and he took off right after – well, once he was done reading me the riot act." Harper frowned, shaking his head ruefully. "He's just here tying up some stuff on a case." Milt raised his eyebrows, and Frank held out a hand. "Don't, Milt. People deal with – people grieve in different ways. He's the kind of guy who needs to keep busy."

"You'd think he could keep busy supporting his brother-in-law," Mark muttered.

The lieutenant shot a quick look at McCormick. "I wouldn't repeat that if you happen to run into him, Mark."

Mark's head whipped up again, and he took another threatening step toward the lieutenant's desk.

"McCormick."

The utterance wasn't loud, or even forceful. Milt spoke his friend's name softly, but the single word broke the tense silence with the power of an echoing shout. Mark inhaled sharply, then felt the energy and anger drain away, leaving him strangely empty. His body sagged, and he let out the breath, closing his eyes.

"Take him home, Milt."

Then Hardcastle was guiding the younger man out of the office, into the hall.

**ooOoo**

Milt moved down the hall several feet from Frank's office, his hands firmly on Mark's shoulders, not stopping until he found a relatively unoccupied corridor. He stepped back, looking at McCormick's lowered head. "You all right?"

"I don't – I'm sorry." Mark lifted his head. "I know I was out of line. I didn't mean – "

"Hardcastle."

The voice that interrupted McCormick's apology fairly dripped with barely-held rage. Both Hardcastle and McCormick turned to look at the man that had just entered the hallway. Detective Arnold glared back angrily, and before the judge could even respond, the man addressed McCormick. "And the con," he said. "Where's your leash?"

Milt stepped forward, lifting his chin. "Benji. I can't tell you how sor—"

The detective raised a hand. "No. Just stop it. You don't get to tell me that, not when you. . ." Arnold swallowed, unable to finish. He looked between the two men. "What the hell are you two doing here anyway?"

"Leaving," Mark said bluntly.

"Good. Don't let me stop you."

Milt nodded shortly, stepping around the detective and heading toward the nearest exit. Mark began to follow, then hesitated. He felt an irresistible urge to say something, anything, that could convey his utter sadness over what had happened. He had just turned back when Arnold unexpectedly grabbed his arm in a vice-like grip, then leaned in close to McCormick's face. Mark stared back uneasily, abstractedly noticing that the detective had unusually small ears.

"Do you know what a .38 does to a kid's head?" Arnold hissed, so quiet that only Mark could hear. "Do you know what that looks like?"

Mark opened his mouth, but all that came out was a choked gasp.

"Think about it." Then before McCormick knew it, Arnold had released him, shoving him against the wall.

"Hey, McCormick! Let's go!"

Mark turned slowly, still looking back warily at the detective. And then suddenly he couldn't get away from the man fast enough.

**ooOoo**

After Milt's repeated queries over what Arnold had said were answered repeatedly by Mark as "Nothing," the rest of the ride home was spent in silence. When Milt pulled the truck up near the fountain, McCormick had his hand on the door and was almost out of the vehicle before it had come to a full stop. As soon as his feet hit the ground he headed for the gatehouse.

"Hey – kid!"

When Mark failed to pause, Milt called out again. "McCormick!" This time the name was spoken with assertion and power.

Mark stopped, took a deep breath, then turned around. "What."

The judge gestured at the main house. "It's getting on lunch time. Sarah's probably got something thrown together – Come on in and eat, okay? You didn't eat much breakfast."

"I'm not really hungry." McCormick looked off to the side, trying to ignore Hardcastle's scrutiny.

"McCormick . . . "

The clear concern in the older man's voice almost did Mark in. And when he looked back at Milt, and saw the quiet, beseeching gaze, he smiled softly, somewhat surprised at how good it felt to have a hay-bearing donkey care about him.

"Judge, I'm all right. I just – " Mark shrugged. "I just need some time alone."

"You feelin' okay?"

"Yes. I'm _fine_. But please, _please,_ just let me be. Okay?"

"Fine. That's what you want, fine." The words were delivered in a choppy, sour fashion, and Mark winced, recognizing the judge's hurt tone. He steeled himself, again turning away and striding purposefully toward the gatehouse. He had almost made it inside when Hardcastle called out, determined to get in the final word.

"But don't blame me if Sarah shows up over there with your lunch!"

* * *

Sarah didn't appear in the gatehouse with a mid-day meal for Mark, but when the ex-con still hadn't emerged from his residence by five P.M., the diminutive housekeeper crossed the area between the rear of the main house and the gatehouse, and rapped impatiently on McCormick's front door.

"Mark? Mark, open this door!"

There was a long enough period of time that Sarah had raised her hand to knock again when the door swung open. A frowning ex-con stood unmoving in the doorway.

"What do you want, Sarah?"

The woman pulled her hand back, then crossed her arms and looked up determinedly at the young man. "I was just checking to see if you were planning on hiding in here all day."

Mark reluctantly stepped away from the door, going to sit on the couch. "I'm not hiding," he muttered.

"Fine. Pouting, then."

McCormick lifted his head. "I'm not pouting, either!" he returned, in a tone he rarely used when speaking to the housekeeper.

If Sarah was disturbed by the angry response, she didn't let it show. Instead the woman seated herself on the couch, placed her hands primly on her lap, and peered silently at the man sitting next to her.

After several moments of silence, Mark spoke, although not facing Sarah.

"Hardcastle send you out here?"

"I came on my own. Mark, I'm going to be leaving soon." This statement forced McCormick to turn his head. "I just thought if you were going to be sitting around stewing, you could do it in the main house. At least that way I'd still be able to see you."

Mark shook his head with a short sigh. "I don't think I'd be very good company, Sarah."

She scoffed lightly. "To be honest, His Honor isn't very good company right now, either. But that doesn't matter. He's family to me, and when it's family, you take the good with the bad. The times you need family the most is during the bad parts. Maybe you don't have a lot of experience with that, but that's how it is."

Mark nodded but didn't answer. A sudden lump in his throat made him think he wouldn't be able to speak for a few minutes.

Sarah recognized the quietness for what it was, and lifted a hand to cup Mark's chin gently. "I'm sorry this is so hard on you." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "I remember when you first came here, how angry and upset you were about what happened to your friend, Mr. Johnson. What was it you called him?"

"Flip," Mark said fondly, his mouth upturning in a half-smile.

"Ah, yes." Sarah lowered her hand, her face growing serious. "I somewhat understand your nickname, but why on earth would someone be called 'Flip'? What would be the basis behind that?"

McCormick's smile grew, his eyes lighting up. "Uh, Sarah, knowing how you feel about auto racing, I don't think you'd really care for that explanation."

Sarah's serious expression melted away, and she mirrored Mark's smile. "That's more like it," she said. "I haven't seen that dimple for a few days."

Mark's face again became somber. He bent down, enveloping the small woman into a hug. "Damn, I'm going to miss you, Sarah."

She returned the hug, for once not reprimanding Mark for cursing. "Oh, you'll just miss my cooking, that's all," she chuckled.

"No, that's not all." Mark pulled out of the embrace, but still gripped the woman lightly by the shoulders. "You're – you're like – Well, you and Hardcastle are probably the best things that ever happened to me. I know that. And I'm sorry for being . . . difficult."

"You're not being difficult. You're grieving. And it's no good to do it alone." Sarah rose, then held out a hand to the ex-con. "Come. You should be with family."

McCormick stood as well, and taking the proffered hand, he let the housekeeper lead him out of the gatehouse. It was good that Sarah was leading the way, because Mark didn't know if he would be able to see straight between the wide grin and the moist eyes that accompanied it.

* * *

Mark awoke to the phone, ringing incessantly near his head, and he reached out in the darkness, fumbling for the receiver. Bringing it to his head, which was still burrowed in the pillow, he grumbled, "'lo?"

There was a pause, then a halting, young voice. _"Uh, I'm looking for Mark McCormick?"_

"Yeah?" Mark muttered.

Silence came from the receiver; other than muted background noise, there was no response.

"Hello?" McCormick repeated impatiently. Again there was no reply, and sighing, Mark pulled the receiver away from his ear, preparing to cradle it back onto the phone.

"_Don't hang up!"_ The frantic appeal caused Mark to pause. The caller went on. _"I used the last of my change to call you. Please, I need your help."_

Mark blinked a few times, trying to shake off the sleep. "Who is this?"

"_You McCormick?" _

Mark sighed again. "Yes, I am. Who is _this_?"

"_Um, I'm John. John Truman." _

"Okay, John." Mark reached over to turn on the bedside lamp, and then peered at his watch. "How can I help you, at three-twenty in the morning?"

"_Um. . . I . . . I got your number from Jason. You know, Jason?"_

"Yeah. I knew Jason," Mark answered flatly.

"_Well, I . . . I saw something. I –" _There was a noticeable deep breath_. "I saw what happened to Jason." _

Mark sat up so quickly he was momentarily dizzy. Clenching the receiver hard against his head, he asked excitedly, "You saw Jason get shot? You saw it happen?"

"_Yeah. And I'm scared. I don't think the guy saw me, but. . . I want out of here. I can tell you what I saw, but I gotta get out of here. Can you come get me?"_

**ooOoo**

McCormick pointed at the aging bus depot. "There, Judge. Pull over there. I'll go get him."

Milt peered through the windshield. "How are you going to know who he is?"

"C'mon, Judge. He'll be the terrified fifteen-year-old runaway standing near a pay phone. I told him not to go anywhere unless someone got on his case. Anyway, Jason described me to him, so he'll know who to look for, too." Mark swung himself down from the pick-up. "I'll be right back."

"Be careful," Hardcastle called out, looking at the collection of rag-tag individuals near the bus depot and on the adjacent streets. _Kid's probably risking his parole just being within arm's reach of half of these people,_ he thought dourly.

It was roughly five minutes when McCormick returned to the truck, a black teenager in tow. Mark opened the door of the pick-up, gestured the skinny boy inside, and then pulled himself in. "Okay, Judge, hit it," the ex-con directed. "Let's get out of here."

Once Milt had driven out of Skid Row and was on more familiar streets, en route to Frank Harper's, he turned to the scruffy teen on his right. "Nice to meetcha, John. I'm Milt Hardcastle."

"You're the judge. Jason told me about you."

"He did, huh?" Milt directed his attention back to the road. "What'd he say?"

"Uh, that you were kind of. . . Well, I think he said 'scary.'"

On the other side of John, McCormick made a familiar _hmmp_.

**ooOoo**

By the time the trio reached Frank Harper's house, it was heading on five A.M. As Milt parked the truck outside, the porch light flickered on, and Frank opened the front door. He was still in a robe but looked wide awake, and when John approached, flanked protectively by the two older men, Frank held his hand out in greeting. "John? I'm Lieutenant Harper."

The teen paused only momentarily, before taking Frank's hand and pumping it firmly. "John Truman," he said, his voice surprisingly strong. He jerked a thumb back at the curly-headed ex-con. "Mark said I could help you?"

"I hope so. Come on in."

As the three entered the house, its other occupant came out of the kitchen. "Milt, how are you?" Claudia Harper smiled at the judge, then turned to McCormick. "And Mark, it's good to see you again."

"Hi, Mrs. Harper."

Claudia swatted Mark's arm. "I told you last time, it's Claudia." McCormick dipped his head, reddening slightly.

"Hey, if he wants to call you Mrs. Harper, let him," Hardcastle said. "He's too disrespectful as it is."

"Oh, don't be so hard on him," Claudia chastised the judge. She then regarded the youngest member of the party. "And you must be John."

The boy nodded in greeting. "Yes, ma'am."

"And so polite," Claudia remarked. Milt nudged McCormick pointedly, and somewhat roughly, in the gut, causing the younger man to grunt. Both Claudia and Frank, used to the relationship between the ex-jurist and the ex-con, ignored the interaction, but John's eyes widened perceptibly.

Claudia moved forward, laying an unassuming hand on the teen's shoulder. "I bet you're hungry. How would you like something to eat? We had turkey last night, and there are plenty of leftovers. Or maybe you'd rather have breakfast? I can cook you some eggs."

Mark raised a hand part-way. "I wouldn't say no to a doughnut."

Milt jabbed him in the stomach again.

**ooOoo**

Eventually the group moved to the kitchen. Claudia had already had a pot of coffee brewing, and the four adults sipped occasionally at their cups of the hot beverage as John finished his meal – and his background.

"So when my mom found out my dad had a lady on the side, they split up. My old man didn't want anything to do with me, so my mom got full custody. And it was okay until she got her new boyfriend. Gabe." The boy took a large gulp of milk, draining his glass. "Turned out the SOB was more interested in me than her." John wiped a hand across his face, dispelling it of the milk mustache. "I had to get away from him. I left."

Claudia rose, got the carton of milk from the refrigerator, and refilled John's glass. "You couldn't tell anyone?" she asked quietly.

John turned a dark gaze on her. "I did. Nobody believed me. They all thought I was making it up. That I was acting out because of the divorce, or because I was 'challenged by the new family dynamic.' It was all 'Why on earth would Gabe do something like that? He's such a_ nice_ man.'"

"And there was nowhere else you could go?" Claudia shook her head sadly. "No one who could take you in?"

John took another drink of milk, then leaned back in his chair. "My grandpa, maybe, but he'd just had a stroke, and was in the hospital." He sighed. "I don't know, I just thought the streets would be better. No school, no rules. If anyone bothered me I could just slug them. I'd be my own man, do my own thing. It was . . . freedom."

McCormick made a rough sound, putting his coffee cup down. Several pairs of eyes shifted his way, but he only responded to John's dark brown ones. "But it didn't turn out that way, did it?"

"No. There were guys out there that wanted what Gabe did, and weren't as 'nice' about it. When it got cold, I didn't have the dough to pay for anyplace warm to stay – half the time I couldn't even afford anything to eat. And the one time I got a little money, for running some messages between a pimp and his . . . 'employees,' I got mugged and beaten up. It was bad. Then this guy shows up outta nowhere, gives me something that'll 'make it better,' and he's not even gonna make me pay for it. 'First one's always free,' he says. 'And if you want more, we can figure out a deal.'"

"Portman?" Hardcastle asked.

John shook his head. "No, not this guy. Portman was the deal-guy, for after. The . . . 'freebie' guy? I only saw him that first time. But that was enough. Not 'cause it was enough to get me hooked or anything, but because it almost killed me."

The statement was delivered with little emotion, and John's face was relatively impassive as he continued. "I took the dose, and didn't even think about it. I wasn't too worried – I'd done pot and some other stuff, 'kay?" His tone became somewhat defensive, as if he were expecting a lecture. None of the adults offered any unsolicited advice, so John relaxed a bit, and went on. "But this stuff was . . . different. _Crazy_. I don't even remember much of what happened, not anymore, but when I was coming down, Jason was there. He'd found me lying in an alley – I guess I'd tried flying off a fire escape or something while I was tripping. He got me someplace safe and took care of me until it was over. That was maybe a month ago. Maybe more." The teenager shrugged. "Hard to keep track of time on the street."

John took a settling breath, and everyone around the table adjusted in kind. Mark changed his sitting position, fidgeting slightly. Milt cleared his throat and rubbed at his nose. Frank rose to fill his coffee cup, and Claudia rose to take John's plate. "Are you still hungry, hon?" she said softly.

John looked up with interest. "Did I hear there were doughnuts?"

Claudia smiled, moving to the counter and returning with a bakery box. "Chocolate frosted, custard-filled, or powdered sugar?"

"Powdered sugar," Mark and John said in unison.

**ooOoo**

Everyone chose a doughnut from the box (John taking two), and as the teen munched on the sweets, he proceeded with his narrative.

"Jason was like my guide, my protector. When Portman came nosing around, he made sure the guy knew I was off-limits. I think he acted like I wouldn't make a good runner, that I was too young, too green, I don't know. Whatever he said, Portman laid off. And Jason showed me how to keep myself safe. He'd been on the streets a lot longer than I had. . . I'd just barely been keeping my head above water. Jason taught me how to swim."

The boy paused, finishing his first doughnut and then licking the powdered sugar from his fingers. The action was familiar to Hardcastle, who had often seen McCormick do the same thing. He glanced at the younger man now, and was somewhat surprised to see Mark had barely touched his doughnut, which lay forgotten next to his cooling cup of coffee. McCormick was watching John attentively, and the ex-con had a look of almost wistful recollection on his face. The expression momentarily threw Hardcastle, until he replayed what John had recently said. "_Jason was like my guide, my protector."_ The judge surmised it was probably very similar to the relationship Mark and Teddy Hollins had had in prison.

John took up the narrative again. "Sometimes we wouldn't see each other for days, but we could always find each other. Like Jason sorta dropped out of sight for a while, and when we met up again, he told me he'd been working to get free of Portman, to get off the streets. He said I could do it too, that I could go home. I basically told him he was nuts – I didn't see how either of us could get away. Especially him, as deep as he was in to Portman. Then all of a sudden Jason was gone, and I just knew it was for good, that he'd gotten out. Especially since Portman disappeared, too. At first I was happy about it, happy for him. Until I realized he'd forgotten about me." The boy bit into his second doughnut, eating more than half in one bite. "Well, that's what I'd thought. So when he showed up a few nights later, I almost didn't recognize him. He had clean clothes – hell, he was clean. And I don't just mean he'd had a shower." The teenager sent a sarcastic look at the lieutenant.

"What?" Frank said defensively. "I didn't say anything."

John put the last piece of doughnut in his mouth, and chewing on it slowly, he stared at Harper with clear skepticism.

Frank turned to Mark. "What did you tell him I said?"

McCormick shook his head. "Wasn't just you. Hardcase thought the only reason Jason went back there was for drugs." He gave the teen a gentle prod. "But that wasn't it, was it, John? Jason came back that night to find you."

John responded with a definite nod. "It was a little after midnight or so. I wasn't expecting him or anything, but he knew where I usually hung out, and he asked a few people, and he eventually tracked me down. Like we always could. He had some cash, so we went to an all-night greasy spoon, and he bought me some food. And we talked."

_John took a huge bite of his burger, then washed it down with the swig of soda. "Mmmf, Jason, this is great," he said, still munching. "I can't remember when I had this much food." _

_The older boy looked grimly at his friend. "I know, Johnny. You're too thin." _

_John laughed in between bites. "Always been thin. Stop motherin' me, Jase." _

_Jason leaned forward from his side of the booth. "John, don't you want to go home? Get out of this hell-hole?"_

_John took another drink, belched, then scoffed derisively. "I ain't got no home to go to. You know that. My family doesn't care a rip about me. Where do you expect me to go?" _

_Jason was quiet for a moment, watching his younger friend eat. Finally making a decisive nod, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a creased, battered business card. "Here." He held the card out to John. _

_John shoved several fries into his mouth, and as he chewed, he took the card from Jason's hand. He squinted at it in the dim lighting. "Milton C. Hard – what? A judge? What is this crap?" _

"_No, not him. The guy on the other side." Jason reached over, turning John's hand so that the opposite side of the card was apparent. "Mark McCormick. He can help. He's not some religious type looking to force his expectations on you. He's wise; he knows the scene. He won't make you go back to your mom's – if you tell him what happened, he'll believe you." Jason was quiet for a beat, then shrugged. "The judge guy is okay, too. But I'd call McCormick. That judge can be a little scary." _

_John studied the card, still toying with the food on his plate. "I don't know, Jason. Okay, you look good, and I'm glad, really, it's great. But me, I don't know." He tipped his glass up to his mouth, shaking the ice cubes in and crunching them between his teeth. "I'll end up in some foster homes or somethin', and then in three years I'll be back out on the streets. I just can't see myself being a normal kid again." _

"_You stay out here, you're gonna get yourself beat up again . . . or worse," Jason said ominously. "Or you'll end up a junkie, like me." John shook his head adamantly, and while Jason wasn't sure if it was because the younger teen refused to believe he'd get hooked on drugs, or because he was refuting Jason's description of himself, his response was the same: "Don't shake your head at me. You know it's true."_

_"Jase, I know how to take care of myself _–_." _

_"Do you?" Jason questioned, his voice low. "Do you want to end up like that kid Rafe? Do you remember him? Nobody does. He__ just . . . disappeared. Someday someone will decide they want you, and you'll become somebody's boy, and that'll be it. John Truman will be gone." Jason extended a hand again, tapping the card. "Call the guy, John. Please." _

_John took a bite of a cold fry, made a face as he swallowed it. He read the handwritten name again. "Mark McCormick, huh?"_

"_Yeah." _

"_What's he like?" _

_Jason grinned. "Pretty cool. Old. Not ancient, like the judge, but he's got to be about thirty. He's got this curly hair, kinda like the dad in __**The Brady Bunch**__ – you know, the later episodes?"_

_John grinned back, and soon both teens were laughing. _

_Jason sobered first, his eyes flitting toward the front of the restaurant. "I can't believe this. He followed me here." _

_John twisted around in the booth. "Who?"_

_Jason grabbed furiously at the younger boy. "Don't do that, don't call attention –" But it was too late. The man at the front of the diner had seen the two boys, and looking directly at the older teen, he jerked his chin in the direction of the rear exit. _

"_John, I gotta go. . . " Jason rose, then looked with confusion at John's disgusted expression. "What, Johnny?" _

"_I thought you were clean, man," John muttered. "What was all this, a friggin' act? 'You, too, can get off the street.' Trying to make a fool out of me, huh? Thanks but no thanks." John tossed the business card onto the table top._

"_What are you talking about?" Jason swiveled his gaze between the man in the front of the restaurant and the dark-skinned boy seated in the booth._

"_Don't play dumb! Jesus! That guy coulda killed me with that Alice he gave me. What the hell do you want with him?"_

_Jason paled enough that it was noticeable in the low lighting. "He's the one that gave you the hit?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. _

"_You didn't know that?" Jason's head shook slowly. "So how do you know him?" John asked next. _

_Jason was still shaking his head. "I don't think I do know him. Not like I thought." Then suddenly the teen looked fiercely at his friend. "John, please. Promise me you'll call this guy." He pointed to the card on the table. "I have to go." _

_John watched from the booth as Jason moved to the rear exit of the restaurant, followed quickly by the drug dealer. A few moments later the boy rose, grabbed the card off of the table, and also made his way to the rear entrance._

"I snuck down to the far end of the alley, to hide around the corner and try to watch. There was this dumpster in the way, but I could see enough. The guy, the 'freebie' guy, he was sort of pushing Jason around. I could only hear a little. . . They were arguing, and they sounded . . . familiar with each other. Like it was maybe an argument they'd had before, y'know? Jason said something about family, and the other guy laughed, but it was like a mean laugh. Then Jason got louder, and he said 'I came to you,' and the other guy said something like 'That's what you think.'" John's face was pinched in concentration as he tried to remember all he'd heard. "They were quieter, I didn't catch everything, but then Jason was yelling. He said 'I trusted you!' and then the guy – he shot him. Just – just shot him." The teen lowered his head. "I ran. I didn't even check to see if Jason was still alive. I ran for my life and didn't stop until I couldn't breathe anymore."

The adults had been listening silently, engrossed in the story. When it became apparent that John had come to the end, Frank ran his hands over his face, clasped them together on the table before him, and regarded the teenager seriously.

"Would you be able to recognize the shooter? Maybe from a mugshot?"

"Or a police academy graduation photo?" Mark murmured.

John glanced at McCormick, then turned to Frank. "Recognize, hell, I can tell you what he looked like. Tall – a little taller than him." He gestured at Mark. "White guy, thin. Brown hair, cut short. Small ears, like weirdly small, or maybe his face is too big, I don't know."

Frank lifted a hand, stopping the description. "You sure of that?"

"Come on, Frank!" Mark exploded. "It's Arnold! He's the inside man Portman was talking about!"

Hardcastle looked solemnly at the lieutenant. "I think he's right, Frank. This is enough for a warrant. If Benji's dumb, he might still have the murder weapon."

"Oh, I already know he's dumb," McCormick breathed. "Frank, you said there wasn't an official ballistics report out yet, right?"

Harper nodded abstractedly. "Yeah, we try to keep some stuff out of the public record, so we can weed out the kooks who confess to crimes they didn't commit. Why?"

"Because Hardcase and I ran into him yesterday when we were leaving the station. And he pulled me aside, asked me if I knew what a .38 did to a kid's head. Trying to shake me up. And it worked. But how would he know the caliber, if there was never an official report?"

"He's got the means to find that out, McCormick," Hardcastle said, but it was apparent from the tone of his voice that he didn't believe his own justification. And when McCormick threw him a dirty look, the judge spread his hands, conceding the point.

There was no immediate response from the lieutenant. Mark spoke again, his voice desperate. "Frank, his own _nephew_. . . The guy's a murderer!" he exclaimed.

"I know!" Frank shot back. "You think I don't know how this looks? One of my own men?" Claudia placed a hand on his forearm, murmuring quietly.

"Who?" John asked, stunned. He stared at the people sitting around the table. "What, is this guy a _cop_?"

"Not for long," Milt said quietly.

* * *

_**A/N: **_There's an inside joke in this chapter: Daniel Hugh Kelly (McCormick) played Robert Reed (Brady patriarch Mike Brady) in the 2000 TV-movie "Growing Up Brady," based on the book by Barry Williams (Greg Brady).

_**EPILOGUE WILL FOLLOW**_


	5. Epilogue

**_Author's Note:_** This is the Epilogue (and final chapter). Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed; if you haven't yet reviewed, please do so!

**-ck**

_Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback, _**_not_**_ for profit._

* * *

_**BAIT AND SNITCH, **_**by InitialLuv**

**EPILOGUE**

Mark wasn't exactly sure how he had expected the day to turn out, but sunny and seventy-plus degrees was not what he had been thinking. Although he had realized by now that funerals did not affect the weather, and even though he was feeling rainy and gloomy inside, it was so warm outside that he was sweating under his dark suit jacket.

Hardcastle and McCormick were standing several yards away from the small group of people surrounding the casket, supported on heavy straps above what was to be its final resting place. Both were quietly listening to the prayer being spoken by the minister, their heads bowed respectfully. Milt's eyes were suspiciously moist; Mark's were hidden behind dark sunglasses.

The men had eventually decided not to attend the funeral ceremony in the church, feeling that their presence would be a distraction, and had instead opted to join only the graveside service. Frank had still discouraged them from making any appearance, but had known that his concerns would most likely be ignored. _"If you go, just try not to make a scene," _he had cautioned earlier, over the phone._ "I don't know if I'll be able to be there to rescue you two." _

Milt had already been dressed in his suit jacket and tie, although he'd neglected to admit that to Harper."You don't think you're going to make it?" the judge had replied. "Funeral's not for another hour." When Milt and Mark had left Harper's house early that morning, the lieutenant had already been on the phone, making arrangements for John to accompany him to the station to make a formal identification of Detective Arnold. Once the boy had – without hesitation – singled Arnold out in a group picture of several officers, warrants had been sworn out for the detective's arrest, and for the search of his residence. The residence search had not produced the murder weapon, but Jason's uncle had not resisted arrest, nor had he been overly concerned about missing his nephew's funeral. Those actions on their own bespoke of the man's guilt.

As if that wasn't enough to keep Frank busy, the lieutenant had also spent a good deal of time locating John Truman's grandfather_. "I don't think I'll get to the church service," _he'd told Hardcastle._ "I want to be here when the kid's grandpa shows up. It might be a tricky reunion, and I've got a personal stake in it now. Claudia, too. She took a shine to that kid."_

"Be careful with that," Milt had advised. "You saw what getting personal with Jason did to McCormick."

The judge glanced side-long at the ex-con now, his attention caught by a visible shudder of the younger man's shoulders. "You okay?" he asked, his voice low.

"Yeah. Terrific," McCormick answered, the bitterness apparent even in the near whisper.

They were suddenly joined by another man, who appeared at Milt's side almost soundlessly. "Hi, guys."

The judge gave Harper a half-smile. "You made it."

"Yeah. And I gave someone a ride here." Frank gestured at two people slowly approaching the assembly near the casket – a skinny teen and an older man, who could only be John Truman and his grandfather. "Guy hasn't driven since his stroke; he took a taxi to the station."

"Reunion went okay?" Mark asked softly.

"Yeah, quite good, actually. The grandfather's name is Wayne Talmadge. He's John's mother's father. He said his daughter recently kicked her boyfriend to the curb, found he had some 'questionable' reading material. Kiddie porn. The grandfather wants her to turn the guy in, but she doesn't want to get 'involved.'" Frank shook his head in disgust, and noticed the twin duplications of his gesture – Milt adding a sneer, and Mark a scoff. Frank went on. "Talmadge said he's not letting John near her until she does."

"_Good_," McCormick said, and the three fell silent, gazing out at the people gathered around Jason's casket.

**ooOoo**

As people began to disperse, Frank went down to collect John and his grandfather, and Hardcastle and McCormick tracked back to the pick-up. Once inside, Mark shed his jacket, loosened his tie, and pushed up his shirtsleeves. He then rolled down his window. "Hot for February," he murmured.

Milt rolled down his own window. "Yeah, nice day." He sighed, then clapped his hands with purpose. "All right. We've got a few ways to go about this – I can talk to Portman again, or we can just cross-reference my files with Frank's, but I think we should be able to get some good leads, somewhere to start. Who knows, Benji Arnold might even cooperate and help us out."

Mark stared at the judge, his eyes, and additionally his expression, concealed by the sunglasses. "What are you talking about?"

"What do you think? Acevedo. The white whale, remember?"

McCormick turned away, looking out the windshield. He inhaled deeply, then on the exhale answered, "No."

"What do you mean, 'No'?"

Mark took off his sunglasses, rubbing at his reddened eyes. "I mean _No_. I know someone needs to go after Acevedo and bring him in, but it's not gonna be me." He faced the judge. "I need a break."

"A break."

"Stop repeating everything I say!" McCormick said with exasperation, tossing his sunglasses aside. "Yes, a break! A break from playing Batman and Robin, Lone Ranger and Tonto, whatever _this _is_." _He waved a hand between the two of them. "I know what I agreed to – or was blackmailed into – but I need to stop. Just for a bit. This last case was . . . rough. I can't just jump back into the files and track down another of your 'ones that got away.'" Mark took a breath, then soldiered on. "Have you noticed we're chasing someone almost every week? Even if it's not one of your old cases, bad guys just drop into our laps. You've got to admit it's a little strange."

Milt shrugged, cocking his head. "I can't help it if you're a trouble-magnet."

"_Me?!_" Mark cried. "Me? Who's the one J.J. Beal came after? Who's the one who inherited the midget racehorse? Who ticked off an ex-CIA agent and ended up getting thrown in a banana republic jail?"

"Yeah?" Hardcastle responded, his voice rising. "Who almost got buried in a shallow grave out in the desert?"

"That was your case, _your_ bad guy – girl, that time. And she was right out of your files!"

"All right, fine, but what about Teddy, huh? Him robbing the poker game, and the gatehouse - "

"Okay, yeah, that one was on me," McCormick admitted, shifting his eyes guiltily.

"And don't forget you getting that terrific racing gig, that ended up being for a team of crooks – "

"Okay!" Mark threw up his hands. "So we're both trouble-magnets." His frustration quickly changed to pleading. "Judge, Sarah's only got a few more days with us before she leaves, and I'd like to spend them with her. Can't we just put Silver and Scout in the barn for a little while, and relax and recharge? Take some time off from dodging bullets?" He lifted his right arm, the bandage now apparent that he'd rolled up his sleeves. "I'd kind of like to stay out of the ER for a few weeks myself."

Milt rubbed a hand over his mouth, then tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, gazing at his friend thoughtfully. "How much time off were you thinking?"

McCormick felt a smile breaking across his face. "Well, we just had Valentine's Day last week – how about we try to make it to St. Patrick's Day before we get involved in something that could get one of us killed?"

The judge nodded, smiling back. "I think that sounds good, kiddo. We'll take a holiday. Even _The Lone Ranger _and _Batman and Robin_ went on hiatus." He started the truck's ignition. "Let's go home, Tonto."

And as he drove the truck slowly out of the cemetery, Hardcastle muttered under his breath: "Make it to St. Patrick's Day without getting killed. . . I don't know why you have to be so dramatic, McCormick. . . "

**_END_**


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